Don't Wake Me
by Namine's Dream
Summary: "Don't wake me 'cause I don't wanna leave this dream.. When it's you I'm dreaming of I don't wanna wake up.." There was only one person he had come to love in this world. And he was dead.
1. Prologue

**I randomly got the idea for this fic on the way to school the other day. First time writing something for BBC Sherlock! Title comes from Skillet's song "Don't Wake Me" from their Awake album.**

* * *

_I went to bed I was thinking about you_  
_I wanna talk and laugh like we used to_  
_When I see you in my dreams at night_  
_It's so real but it's in my mind_

_And now I guess this is as good as it gets_

_Don't wake me 'cause I don't wanna leave this dream_  
_Don't wake me 'cause I never seem to stay asleep enough_  
_When it's you I'm dreaming of I don't wanna wake up_

* * *

Prologue

Three years. Three entire years it took ex-army doctor John Hamish Watson to recover from the death of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. And now here he was, on this fine Tuesday, about to be married. The bride, her name was Mary. John couldn't imagine there was anyone left in the world that could make him feel _alive_, but Mary had done it. He was grateful for that. John didn't know if he really loved her, despite that. There was only one person he had come to love in this world.

And he was dead.

* * *

**I realize how short this is, but I assure you, there is more on the way! Please enjoy and stay tuned for more!**


	2. Objection

**Ah finally, chapter one! This ended up being pretty long in my notebook, so I hope it's a satisfactory size on here! I had a joy writing this. And of course, I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter One: Objection

"You look lovely, John."

Of course Mrs. Hudson would act like a doting mother on the day of John's wedding. It's not like his own mother would show such affection for him. Oh, she was attending the wedding of course, but after past incidents with Harry and him.. best not get into the details. Harry was also attending, much to Mary's insistence. John wouldn't argue, he was too stoic. John was the type to internally battle with such feelings about his sister.

He smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I never thought.. well," John chuckled softly to avert those _feelings _that occasionally crept up on him sometimes.

"Oh dear, not today," she replied, hugging him. "Now off with you, the ceremony will start soon!"

John nodded and proceeded into the chapel.

* * *

Something fluttered inside of John when he saw Mary in her wedding dress. She was gorgeous. Then another something hit John inside - guilt. Why should he feel guilty? Nothing had ever happened, although he was wary to admit even to himself that he wished they had, even though all the times he tried to convince everyone around him that he wasn't gay, even though -

"John."

A quiet whisper of his name came from somewhere to his left. It was Mary.

"Stop gaping like an idiot, it's embarrassing!" she whispered. John nodded and cleared his throat, turning to the priest, a small graze of his hand on Mary's arm. The priest smiled back at John and began.

"We are gathered here today..."

* * *

Everything had been going as planned, everything had been the way it was supposed to be.

But then, when in John's life had anything went according to plan?

The priest was almost to the end of the ceremony, about to ask for the "I do's". But of course, beforehand...

"If there are any objections to the marriage of this lovely couple before you, please speak now or forever hold your peace."

Silence ensued, as of course John knew it would. The silence was so profound that John heard the priest's intake of breath as he was about to continue when -

"Objection."

Everyone present looked around in alarm, trying to find the usurper of such a lovely occasion. John's eyes found Molly Hooper's in the front row, but she looked away too quickly for John to see anything. Normally this would have tipped him off, but he was in a state that nothing was clear in his mind. He found Mrs. Hudson next, wondering if she thought as he did. An understanding passed between the two. This wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening.

"What?" the priest finally asked, perplexed.

"You asked for objections, and I objected."

The voice came from the back of the chapel, the speaker's face hidden by a shadow. But John knew. He wouldn't need a face to recognize him, he knew this man by his voice alone.

He stepped into the light of the aisle.

"John."

John's legs felt weak, as if he was about to collapse any moment. _No. No way. That's not him. What kind of sick bastard would do this to me on my wedding -_

"John. John, who is that?"

John looked to Mary, a confused look plastered across her face. John shook his head, "I.. I don't know."

"John, please stop being so unobservant. You know who I am."

He had reached the front row of pews, hand resting on the back of it. He looked disheveled, as if he'd just been in a fight. But Sherlock Holmes didn't get into "fights". All that mattered was the work. And now John.

Sherlock's eyes never left John's. Mary kept looking between the two, staring down John with a pleading look of _whowhatwhy _as she clung closer to his arm.

"No. No, you aren't real. What kind of sick bastard, this is my _wedding _-"

"Your psychosomatic limp, it came back. It took you a year to shake it again. Your left hand is shaking right now, and it only does that when you're in extreme fear. You haven't told - Mary was it? - about your therapist, clearly because you've stopped seeing her. You still have nightmares on occasion, obvious from the bags under your eyes. Is that enough or must I go on, John?"

It took everything John had to stay standing. He tore his eyes away from _him_ and looked at Molly, who looked away again. And John knew. Molly _knew_ and she had kept this from him. She had lied to his face for three whole years. A whirlwind of emotions crashed inside John; anger, sadness, guilt, more anger, confusion, and fear. John was very vaguely aware of the mutterings of the attendees before him.

"What's going to happen?"  
"Doesn't that man look familiar?"  
"You don't think, do you?"  
"Poor Mary..."  
"Should we.. leave..?"

A cough from behind John quieted the entirety of the assembled.

"Might I ask the reasoning behind your objection, sir?" the priest asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I simply cannot have John tied down to some.. woman, when he is essential to my work."

John could see all the gaping mouths in front of him. _Did he really just say that?_

"Some.. some _woman_? I'm John's _fiance _mind you!" Mary exclaimed.

Sherlock only shrugged. "That is of no importance to me. You aren't the one I'm concerned with."

At this moment, Molly had stood up and stood beside Sherlock, where she finally acknowledged John. "John, I'm so sorry I didn't tell you, it was important -"

"IMPORTANT? Molly, I went through hell for three years, and you didn't have the decency to tell me anything, anything at all when you knew, how did you live with yourself -"

"It was my decision, John."

John's heated rant came to a halt. Not knowing what to say to the man he'd thought dead for three years, he stood with his fists clenched, if only to calm the shaking of his left hand. At a loss for words, he shook his head repeatedly.

"Sherlock, you best explain it to him," Molly whispered, so as to not reveal Sherlock's identity to the assembled.

"Not here, too many ears," he answered quickly.

John finally found words. "I would punch you right now if we weren't in a church. You deserve more than that, though. Although I can't think of a just enough punishment for living through hell for three years."

John stared at his feet. He wouldn't give _him _the satisfaction of making eye contact again. John turned his back and addressed the priest. "Please continue, if you will."

"Ah right well, you see sir, there's some procedures that occur in the case of objections, and I really don't think this is a good time.."

"So you're saying we have to postpone the wedding?" Mary asked, a touch of anger in her voice.

"Obviously. Why don't people ever _observe_?"

Sherlock's response came as unwanted as ever. He never really understood his place..

John whirled around and countered, "Did anyone ask you?"

Sherlock stood there for a moment, thinking. John could almost swear he could hear _his_ brain working, trying to find the right words as to not set John off again, but most anything _he_ said did that anyway. What John heard next, he never thought he'd ever hear from _him _in his life.

"Please, John."

John stood there, stunned. Was _he_ pleading? As much as John tried to ignore it, that's what he heard. Finally, John made eye contact. What he saw there almost made him feel sorry for _him_. Sherlock Holmes always told everyone he was a sociopath, that he didn't _feel_, but that was a lie.

"Please, John. I'll explain everything to you. Will you come?"

Sherlock held out his hand, a gesture that he had never done for anyone in his life.

Except John.

* * *

**Clearly I don't really know how marriage ceremonies work since I'm only a teenager so I just kind of shot in the dark on that one. Not Brit-picked either, but I think I kind of got it pretty in character? Feel free to point out anything that should be changed though!**


	3. Reunion

Chapter Two: Reunion

John stared. It was all he could do. It was shock enough that Sherlock Holmes was even alive, let alone offering his hand to the man he considered his one and only friend. John couldn't recall the number of times he fantasized about their reunion, because Sherlock couldn't really be _dead_. But after a year passed, then two, John slowly hollowed out to a mere lifeless being. Then he met Mary.

And John stared. He would deny it when anyone told him he had been gazing into the other man's eyes, because he couldn't allow the sentiment. Not after all this time. He was already broken once, John couldn't live through it twice. But that smouldering gaze of Sherlock Holmes caught John's eyes, trapped them there, suspended in a time and place that was only them, Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. And John stared because he didn't know what words were anymore.

"Will you come?" Sherlock repeated in a whisper.

The words _oh God, yes, _swam through John's brain, but those words were from a different time, a time of trust and adventure and security. John felt none of these things now. He nodded once, slowly. He turned to Mary, grasped her shoulders, and whispered, "I'm sorry," before he walked down to the level where Sherlock stood. Sherlock nodded, then motioned to Molly to bring Mrs. Hudson and herself along. Molly was necessary for the full story to be relayed to John. Every miniscule detail, he needed to hear everything.

Sherlock walked back up the aisle, and he could hear John's shuffling steps behind his. _That limp of his..._

"This is.. I won't stand for this! Give him back!" Mary yelled from the alter.

Sherlock refused to waste words on the woman. He shot her a dangerous look, it all but screamed _you know nothing about him. _She stifled the words she was going to say with a cough, driven into a submissive nature by the animalistic gleam she saw in Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock refused to let anyone come between him and John. Never again.

* * *

The entire cab ride was silent. John only spoke to the cabbie to tell him to stop at the flat he shared with Mary so he could change and bring some things along, much to Sherlock's insistence. John clambered back into the cab, still not speaking. He barely glanced at Sherlock as he sat down, immediately turning his head to look out the window and watch the London streets pass by. They were all familiar to John, having walked, paced, and stalked these streets in hope of finding anything, anything at all, to Sherlock's whereabouts. Then it grew to frustrated pacing, frequenting Sherlock's (few) 'usual places', then a maddening stalk, something akin to dementia settling into John's mind. The dementia-like element mixing with paranoia, finally dropping John into the empty shell of a human that he was after the first year.

_No, enough of that. You cannot afford to show such a weakness in front of him. No._

John was so caught up in his mind that he hardly noticed the cab had stopped. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see Sherlock's hand coming to shake him to relay the information. John's quick reflexes swatted the hand away, and got out of the cab. Sherlock paid the cabbie, waiting on the sidewalk for the cab that carried Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Neither of the men had keys to the flat anymore; Sherlock had lost his during his 'travels', and John had thrown his out after he moved in with Mary. John remembered when Mary had suggested moving in with him, but he couldn't allow that. He wouldn't allow anyone else to touch Sherlock's things. Oh yes, John kept everything where it was. In memoriam, he had told Mrs. Hudson. John's mind ran, cataloging where those things were in the flat. John wondered if Sherlock would play his violin when they went upstairs -

_No._

Thankfully, Molly and Mrs. Hudson arrived just then, forcing John out of his racing mind. Sherlock nodded at Mrs. Hudson, who unlocked the front door, then led them upstairs and unlocked the door to what used to be Sherlock and John's flat. Sherlock noticed that everything was where he had left it, and clean as well, obviously Mrs. Hudson's doing. Sherlock made some motion towards John and Molly to sit down while he said, "Tea, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'm not your housekeeper," she answered with a smile, yet going off to make tea for them anyway.

Sherlock's eyes roamed the flat, looking for something - ah, there it was, his violin. He picked up the case, wanting to open it and play more than anything, but he wasn't so sure...

"Do you mind?" he directed the question to both John and Molly, but only Molly replied with a nod. John said nothing, still not finding a grasp on the English language. Sherlock waited a few more moments, hoping beyond anything that John would at least _look _at him, but to no avail. Internally sighing, Sherlock opened the case and began playing.

It wasn't a piece John had ever heard before, and that caught his attention. At least he was looking in Sherlock's general direction, but he still didn't feel that short electric current he normally felt whenever John looked at him. It was as if this current were buzzing around him, cocooning him in while he played. It reminded Sherlock of bees, which reminded him of how he wanted to keep bees, and how much he had meant to ask John if that was alright. John. _Right, this is for John._

Sherlock forced all other thoughts from his mind, focused only on playing the piece he had composed solely in his head for the day he returned to John. This was John's song, utterly and completely. Tentatively, Sherlock let himself _feel_. He was scared to admit to himself how frightened actually _feeling _things made him, but for John, he would brave anything. He already had, after all.

Sherlock poured his feelings into his playing, hoping John would understand just how hard it was for him as well. Sherlock knew John would take it the hardest, but he believed John was strong enough to live, and he had. He drew the bow along the strings, a slow, melancholic melody echoing throughout the flat. Mrs. Hudson had reappeared with four cups of tea, waiting for Sherlock to finish as to not interrupt him. The last note reverberated throughout the flat. Before John could stop himself, he said, "Brilliant."

Sherlock looked up, wondering if John was finally capable of speech, but John had realized his mistake and dropped his head into his folded hands. _Back to square one it seems._

"Thanks for the tea Mrs. Hudson," Molly said, getting a bit uncomfortable in the silence.

"Oh, it's fine dear."

Everyone was sitting around John, minus Sherlock. He was still standing, holding his violin, waiting for an indication from Molly to start talking. They locked eyes, Sherlock easily deducing that the faster they told John the better off he might be. Sitting down in his armchair, he folded his hands the way he always did when he was thinking about a case. He sat for a minute, attempting to calm the hurricane of thoughts in his brain. It was always like this.

"John."

No response.

"John, I need you to look at me."

Still no response.

"John, please."

That one simple word again, a word that felt so foreign in Sherlock's mouth but was necessary, that one word was able to break through all of John's barriers. He had disciplined himself enough the past months not to show how truly broken and sad he still was, and John was afraid that if he looked at Sherlock now, that whatever he would see there, would put all of that to waste. He had convinced himself that he needed Sherlock like he needed air, and after he was gone, what was there to live for anymore? It was all too sudden, the dramatic entrance at the wedding, then dragging him back to the flat he hadn't seen in months. Sharing a cab, hearing that violin, it made his head spin; he felt a weakness that he never had before. John felt a hand on his shoulder, the warmth spreading throughout the continuous cold he always felt. The warmth battled with fear, conquering enough that John was finally able to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Tell me," he croaked out, unsure if his mental stability would be able to handle the truth. He knew it was a good thing, that _he _was back, but John had relived that day too many times in his nightmares. But, what was one more time, really?

"John, when you said.. when you called me a machine, back at Bart's. And you told me that friends protect people. That's what I did, John. I want you to know that."

That low baritone voice enveloped John in a blanket of warmth, erasing whatever little fear that was left. "And what I said at Baskerville.. you remember it. I meant that, John."

John nodded, more sure of himself this time. He would not forgive so easily, but this, just this, being together again, John needed this. He didn't know what he was going to do about Mary by the end of this, but that was of no relevance to him right now. Sherlock was here and Sherlock was alive and he was flesh and blood and Sherlock was with John.

"I.. I didn't mean that. Calling you a machine," he mumbled. John knew Sherlock heard him. He always heard John.

Sherlock didn't need to say anything. After he had apparently "distanced" himself from John, Sherlock knew John had only said those things in anger. John was concerned with the well being of Mrs. Hudson, not that Sherlock wasn't, of course he was, but there was much more at stake that day. Sherlock had learned things, experienced things; he had unlocked a side of himself that he never knew existed. One with feelings. Sherlock had changed, and to everyone else, this would be a good thing.

But Sherlock was scared. Scared of who he had become.

"I know," he said, only for the benefit of Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock drilled his eyes into John's, trying to send him some feeling of comfort before he began the gruesome tale of his "death".

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Best get to it then. Molly, if you'd begin?"

Molly turned to John, patting his shoulder in reassurance, before she began her part in the story.

"You see John, after you left Bart's..."

* * *

**Ah yes, chapter two! Sorry for such a delay, been busy with school as of late. But I think the content of this chapter makes up for it. Still not Brit-picked, but I'm watching myself so hopefully it isn't too full of Americanisms. Please enjoy!**


	4. A Shard of Truth

**Goodness, I apologize for how long it's taken me to update this! I'm currently on summer break, so hopefully I'll be able to update faster! I realize Sherlock's explanation of his "death" is a bit weak but I was just not getting anything more creative so I went with a couple theories I, and I'm sure the rest of the internet, had.**

* * *

Chapter Three: A Shard of Truth

"After you left John, Sherlock.. he asked me for my help. Strange that, he's never needed my help before so I'd wondered what could've possibly been running through his head at that-"

"Molly, do stay on track please." Sherlock sounded impatient.

"Ah right yes, sorry. He needed my help to stage his death, John. I do work in the morgue after all." She laughed a little at that. "He did jump though. This is where I get a little lost.. Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. "You see John, when I asked you to stop there, behind that building, it's because there were things going on that I couldn't let you see. There was a truck, which I landed into. The body on the ground was mine, yes. Molly, working at Bart's, has an uncanny amount of access to private stores of drugs and poisons."

Molly looked away, a little embarrassed. Everyone knew she wasn't really allowed to places like that at Bart's. Sherlock continued. "After you left to check on Mrs. Hudson, Molly assisted me in finding a drug, a poison rather, that would alter my heart rate. Rhododendron ponticum, makes the heart rate mimic that of near death. The blood-"

Sherlock was not prepared when John interrupted him. "Stop. Just.. stop this. That's enough. I understand." Sherlock looked at John, clearly concerned. John could see the question in those orbs, asking _Are you sure you're alright? _For the first time, Sherlock was unable to read John; couldn't deduce a single thing about him. What did normal people do when they were uncomfortable, or trying to deal with some hardship?

"I think that's all then Molly. You may leave."

Sherlock was back to being cold and unforgiving towards Molly, now that he no longer needed her. He knew it wasn't the best way to go about things, but normal people liked to be alone at times like this, right?

"Oh. Oh I see then, I'll just.." Molly hurried out of the flat, not wanting Sherlock to see how hurt she was. Mrs. Hudson offered to make tea, which Sherlock flatly refused. If John wanted tea, Sherlock would do it. A kind gesture in hard times, right? When the door of their flat closed, and Sherlock already thought of it as _their flat _again, John still sat in his armchair, silent. Sherlock steepled his fingers as he watched John, who was very obviously not paying attention to Sherlock. "Tea?" he asked simply, and perhaps out of reflex, John nodded, still lost inside himself.

A few minutes later, Sherlock returned with two cups of tea, the first of which he handed to John, who took it reflexively. The two sat in silence, drinking their tea. Sherlock knew John would become responsive sooner or later, hoping for the former. When Sherlock couldn't take any more of the monotonous drone of silence, he stood, intending to go to his room and use his laptop, or maybe text Lestrade and see if he had any cases, when John caught his hand. "Wait."

Sherlock sat back down. He needn't ask what John wanted, that was redundant. "I still don't understand _why _you did it all. What was the point?"

Out of all the things Sherlock knew about John, this was the one thing he was sure John would've seen, would've _observed_. "You really didn't understand did you? They were going to kill you, John. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Three snipers. The only way I could stop them was if they saw me jump."

Sherlock noticed how John flinched when he heard the word "jump". Nightmares, then. "I'm not afraid to die, Sherlock."

"Of course not, Afghanistan after all. But you were afraid to live a life that I wasn't in."

Sherlock needed no confirmation on his statement, he knew he was right. After all the times John visited his "grave", it would be clear to even the average person. John sat and stared at Sherlock, at another loss for words. Best to let him sort through it all himself, then.

As he left John there, he simply said, "I'm sorry."

* * *

John sat, eyes glazed over as another wave of cold crashed over him. Sherlock never apologized, never to anyone. What had those three years done to change him, to make him almost like a normal person? Sherlock's apology had struck a cord someplace in John, the ring of the words sounding almost like another farewell. The cold inside John almost made him lose his reason, Sherlock was only going into his bedroom, not jumping off a building. Or out the window. Right?

John's instincts kicked in, and he launched himself up and towards the door to Sherlock's room. Surprisingly, it wasn't locked, and the door swung open easily. There he was, sitting up on his bed, no doubt updating his website with his return. It took John a moment to realize that he was breathing slightly hard, not from the exertion since the room was only a few feet out of the sitting room, but from fear. Sherlock met John's eyes, not needing to ask the question as to why John was in his room.

"I.. I thought.. I thought you were gone."

"John.. what kind of man do you think I am?"

"What.. what are you playing at?"

Sherlock took a moment to gather his thoughts. "John.. you know I'm not the best with words, not like you. I don't know what you expect me to say. But just know that I'm not the kind of human being that would put someone through that kind of suffering a second time in their life. Especially not you."

John faltered. Sherlock didn't know, he couldn't know, his words meant so much, not just to John, but to everyone. He thought John had a way with words? Words flowed from Sherlock just like water, a poetry of words unlike anything John had ever heard before in his life. He clung to those words, because not only did the words themselves mean something, but John very subconsciously needed to hear Sherlock's voice, needed some proof somehow that he was really alive.

"Right. Right," was all John managed to say, closing the door behind him as he made his way to his upstairs bedroom, the room stirring up a multitude of memories, not many of them good. John tried futilely to fall asleep, but those memories haunted his waking mind and eventually followed him into his dreams as nightmares.

* * *

John woke to the sounds of a violin. He vaguely recognized the piece, but his muddled morning brain couldn't quite place it. John rolled over, wanting more than anything to be able to fall asleep peacefully. After a few more agonizing minutes with sleep eluding him, something John thought he'd only find with a strong sedative, he went to take a hot shower. He had always heard showers were the places to think, but try as he might, all his thoughts and problems were possibly even more confusing than before. He had left Mary at the alter for God's sake. He hadn't bothered to contact her, to explain anything that happened. A sliver of guilt made its way to John's heart, because Mary deserved better than what he had given her. He couldn't imagine she would understand, but then again, would anyone? This was Sherlock after all, and John knew him and needed him more than anyone.

John had no idea how long he had actually been standing in the shower until the cold water started hitting his back. Knowing that feeling all too well, John shut the water off quickly and grabbed a towel, trying to stave off the impending cold he knew was coming. How many times had this happened in the days, weeks, months, and years Sherlock had been gone?

In John's room, he found his warmest jumper and pulled it on over his shirt. Once fully clothed, John made his way downstairs and into the kitchen for his routine cup of tea. Something about this, just this routine of Sherlock waking John with his violin, the hot shower and tea afterwards, made all of this just a bit better. Only a bit.

A buzz from John's phone reminded him that he needed to talk to Mary. He fully expected the text he just received to be from her, but instead it was from Sherlock.

_Good morning._  
_- SH_

John shook his head. What kind of person texts his flatmate instead of speaking to him verbally?

_Yes thank you. Have you_  
_decided against human_  
_speech now?_  
_- JW_

John waited for a reply, but after not receiving one in the usual time it took for Sherlock to reply to John's texts, he sent one to Mary.

_Look, about yesterday. I_  
_can explain everything._  
_Lunch?_  
_- JW_

"Mary, I presume?"

John nearly dropped his tea as Sherlock walked into the kitchen.

"Where were you then? If you've been in the flat I see no reason for you to be texting me."

John's snarky reply only ensured Sherlock's deduction that John was trying to put up a defense mechanism, a way to cope. It would've been pointless to think John would just revert back to his old self just because Sherlock was back in his life. Sherlock knew that, back then, he had been the center of John's universe. Not anymore, for John had Mary. Was any of this right, then? Had Sherlock's request been too much, too selfish? If he had to be honest, he would admit that he wanted to keep John all to himself. Three years separated from your best friend would do that to a person.

"I had to check if you kept the same mobile number. I figured sending a text would be an easier way of confirmation than by asking verbally."

John "hmph-ed" quietly at that. Same old John. "Yes, you were right, it's Mary. I need to make yesterday up to her."

Sherlock knew he had no right to feel jealous, but that burned stronger than ever in his body. Mary this, Mary that. That ridiculous woman was ruining everything. Sherlock knew John had been happy in his company, loved it, revelled in it. That was the old John, though. This John was new, one that had experienced real grief, and miraculously lived through such an ordeal. He had been put back together by someone who was not Sherlock, and Sherlock knew that he had to be grateful, at least in part, to Mary for that.

If there was an upside to the whole thing, it was that this John was _new_. New and exciting and interesting all over again. John had always interested Sherlock, even after all the time they had spent living together before _that_. After all that time, Sherlock had never tired of John. This was a whole new experiment, a whole new game, and Sherlock would enjoy playing it. Still, the jealousy burned.

"Good luck then," he clipped out, leaving John sitting in the kitchen, alone.

* * *

**Angst whoah haha. Not as bad as other fics I've read but.. anyway. As always, not Brit-picked, but hopefully enjoyable nonetheless!**


	5. Preserving Through Life

**It's been a while! I feel very bad about that, so I spent almost 12 hours working on this last night. It's definitely not perfect by any means, but it's something!**

* * *

Chapter Four: Preserving Through Life

John heard a door slam, most likely the door leaving the flat. This was a very normal occurrence in John's past, when Sherlock couldn't handle the difference between John and himself, he would leave and.. come to think of it, John wasn't sure where Sherlock went at those times. Looking for cases? Most likely. Surely not looking for a fix. At least, not in the past anyway. John wasn't sure what Sherlock would do anymore.

John jumped out of his chair, knocking the chair over and spilling the remainder of his tea onto the table. His instincts were telling him that he needed to follow Sherlock, not due to the adrenaline of a case but because now, there was a chance Sherlock would leave and never come back. The more sensible part of John steeled itself against those instincts, reminding himself that he was still upset with Sherlock, and that he wouldn't let himself sink to the level of a clingy significant other.

With the tea effectively cleared from the table, John checked his phone for a message back from Mary. All it said was:

_Noon. That Chinese _  
_place you like.  
_

* * *

John found Mary seated at their usual booth. John liked booths, they allowed for more space and less awkward yes-I-just-touched-your-foot-with-mine-on-accident-what-of-it happenstances. Mary seemed overly engrossed in reading the menu, which John was sure she had memorized by heart from all the times they had ate here together much to John's persistence. John knew that she knew he was here, but was making things much harder for him than need be.

"Mary."

Her eyes never left the menu, but she motioned for John to sit opposite her on the booth. A moment passed, and she motioned for the waiter to take their order. Each ordered their usuals, and Mary sat across from John waiting for the explanation she more than deserved. John tried to fight off his guilt from the hurt Mary's eyes held. She was as stoic as John at times, which was one of the initial things he noticed about her, and appreciated. Now it was just a hindrance. She would not yield; she would make John be the one to speak first.

"Mary, I'm not sure what I can say. What I did was a horrible thing, and I don't expect you to forgive me anytime soon, if at all. I acted on my instincts, on a past I have daydreamed of reliving for years. Especially on a day like yesterday, I shouldn't have been living in the past, I should have been thinking of the future. A future you and I were going to enjoy. I'm not going to say I was afraid of commitment, because I wasn't. I'm not going to make excuses for myself. There's really only one thing I can say, and that is that.. it's Sherlock Holmes, Mary."

John wasn't sure what was worse. He hadn't expected Mary to lash out at him, but he didn't dismiss it as a possibility. Instead she sat in a silent rage, grasping her arms so hard her knuckles were on the verge of turning white.

"That's just it, isn't it? It's Sherlock Holmes. Good day, John."

Mary rose and left the restaurant without another look at John.

And that was how John paid for two meals that no one even touched.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't meant to snap at John, but his resentment towards Mary got the better of him. Three years ago Sherlock wouldn't be caught dead walking the streets of London alone, but he had been forgotten since years passed. The sounds of London coupled with the thoughts in Sherlock's head, a maelstrom of unending noise. God, he needed a case.

_Need something. _  
_I'll take anything _  
_you have._  
_- SH_

He never begged Lestrade for cases. It was supposed to be the other way around. He was a 'consulting' detective after all.

_Small homicide in_  
_Greenwich. Busy_  
_with others._  
_Details at the Yard._  
_- GL_

Sherlock wouldn't even care if he could solve the case immediately at the Yard. He just needed _something_. He didn't want to think about John right now, as that reminded him of Mary and how close he was to losing John forever. Women, not his area. Foiling his plans, getting in his way, stealing John. Not really a good name in Sherlock's book.

Sherlock climbed into the first cab that would stop for him, the seclusion of the cab a necessary recluse.

* * *

John had been sitting in the flat for a while wondering just what to do about Mary. More specifically, if he wanted to do anything more about Mary. Did John really enjoy the normal, domestic life they shared?

_It was more like persevering, I guess. Preserving through life without actually living. The only time I've ever lived - truly - was with him._

John didn't know. He just didn't know about anything. He was wading through a pool of uncertainty with no way of knowing the direction he should go. His past with Sherlock was many things: exciting, exhilarating, frustrating, maddening, and ultimately, heartbreakingly soul-wrenching. His life with Mary had been many things as well, but nothing notably as vivid. This apparent end to their relationship hadn't ended in heartbreak for John. He was able to begin to piece back together his old life, a life he would have given anything for. And it seems he had.

Ex-army doctor John Watson was not yet through begrudging consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. But he was one step closer to forgiving his greatest friend.

* * *

As expected, Sherlock didn't even need to leave the Yard to solve Lestrade's level two case.

_Talk to the sister,_  
_ask her about_  
_the money._  
_- SH_

Sherlock left the Yard not even ten minutes after initially arriving. With his mind in use elsewhere, his ill-placed resentment towards John had dissipated. Even so, Sherlock wasn't sure John was ready to deal with him again. The universe would have a different idea; the magnetic pull of John forced Sherlock to make his way back to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock didn't know about the solar system, but he was the moon and John was the sun. The center of his universe.

* * *

John was in the kitchen when Sherlock came back. He only heard one door shut, so Sherlock was probably spread out on the couch putting on his nicotine patches -

_Come to think of it, I don't know if he does that anymore._

Neither man spoke to each other when John entered the living space with his tea and a cup for Sherlock. John's peace offering, Sherlock always called it. Sherlock's arms were clear of nicotine patches, to John's surprising delight. This silence was the most calm the two men had experienced yet, the tea a key factor. John knew Sherlock would ask about Mary, and Sherlock knew John would ask where he had been. It was just a battle to see who would inquire first.

"So.. where did you go?"

The response was immediate. "The Yard. Lestrade had a case for me. Only a two, didn't have to do anything more than read the case notes."

"But.. you never leave the flat for anything less than a seven."

"That was then, John. This is now."

"Oh," John said. It was all he could say. That one simple response made John feel like he didn't know this Sherlock at all. 'This is now'? What could that possibly mean?

"So. Mary?" Sherlock countered.

John sighed deeply. Here we go.

"Met her for lunch to talk about yesterday. I explained things to her and she didn't even say anything. She just up and left."

"Things? Do enlighten me more on these 'things' you spoke of, John."

"I don't think that's really any of your business."

_That military tone of voice. That's my John. Fierce._

"Fine."

Sherlock rose to go to his room to change into his favorite robe. His cup was still half full of tea, which he knew John would notice. About to disappear into the hallway, Sherlock stopped and looked at John and simply said, "Oh, and we're out of milk, John."

John knew he was toying with him. Sherlock knew of the horrible relationship John had with the chip-and-pin machines when he went out to do the shopping. This behavior was a clear sign Sherlock was in one of his better moods.

John, slightly irritated by this notion, went to verify Sherlock's claim about the milk. The man was never wrong. With pen in hand, John made a list for the shopping he would inevitably be doing in the coming days.

And with an instance such as this, a sliver of normalcy crept into 221B Baker Street. A shard of the past, and a small hope that things were returning to the way they once were. The way things were meant to be.

* * *

**Writing Sherlock is very difficult. John is a lot easier :'D This fic shouldn't be too much longer, I'm shooting for between 7 and 10 chapters. Hope you enjoy!**


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